New Name
by Belthronding
Summary: A ficlet for Staggering Wood Elf's b'day. Lomion receives a gift the day of his twelth birthday... Rated for shortness


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New Name

"Lomion, my son, your father demands your presence in his forge." 

The young elf looked up at his mother, intrigued. His father had spent the best part of two days working in there, alone, which was strange in itself, as it meant his workers were left with practically nothing to do. His mother smiled at him, a sad smile, tinged with sadness, and her eyes were red rimmed proving she had been crying. He reached up to touch her cheek, to comfort her in any way possible, but she shook her head and brushed his hand away.

"Go to him now, Lomion, you know he does not tolerate lateness."

He left his mother, looking back at her regretfully; her white gown a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness, a beacon in the night. He turned from the light and made his way to a different one: the red hues of his father's forge. The heat wafted under the door, meaning the fires lit that morning were still going. He stood outside for a moment, unsure whether to enter or not. Inside, he could hear his father hammering, and he let the sound wash over him, until his heart beat alongside it in a low rhythm, rocking through his body. 

He peaked through a crack in the door and saw his father, stripped down to the waist, working with his back to the door, hammering a long piece of iron. His overalls lay to the side, obviously abandoned in hast. Lomion leaned against the door, suddenly tired, though he did not know why.

"Come in." 

His father's voice made him start. He didn't realise Eöl knew he was waiting, but the hammering had stop without him noticing. He opened the door slowly and closed it quickly again, before the heat had the chance to escape into the cool night air.

"I am just finishing." Eöl said this assertively, beckoning his son to his side. Lomion noted he looked flustered, and sweat was trickling down his face, and along his back. The fire was glowing orange, long shadows flickered on the walls, shifting and twisting in an ethereal and macabre dance. He looked beyond his father's shoulder to the work bench. The long strip of iron had turned into a sword, though yet to be finished. It was at least as long as his arm, and far wider. He yearned to pick it up, hold it firmly in his grasp, then swing it expertly to the left and right, with the air rushing in his ears. But he didn't.

"I see how you yearn for this sword. It shall be yours soon, Maeglin, of the house of Eöl." He smiled thinly at Lomion. "You are twelve years old now, and I give you the name Maeglin, sharp glance, for I perceive that you see clearer and deeper than even I do." He waited, expecting some acknowledgement from his son.

Lomion, or Maeglin as he was now to be called, bowed his head. 

"I am Lomion, child of twilight," he thought to himself, "I shall always be that." Outwardly he said, "Yes father." And looked into his father's eyes, as if trying to show he had earned his name well. But he couldn't see much past those eyes, only pride, that he knew already, so he shifted his gaze back to the half finished sword, lying like a trophy on the bench.

Eöl turned suddenly and picked up the weapon. Reverentially he handed it to Maeglin.

"Hold it."

The boy picked up the sword, which seemed made for his hand. The metal still showed blue, from where the strips of iron had been carefully melded together. He swung it deftly through the air, and a faint thrill coursed through his body. This weapon would be his. Until he could make his own.

"Well?"

He had to praise it.

"It fits well, and is very light."

Eöl nodded, as if this was the answer he was waiting for, before retreating into the shadows. He came back a moment later, sword in hand.

"You will test it against a real blade." It was a command.

Maeglin stood ready. Eöl squared up, facing him, holding his sword with two hands.

"Aim for my head."

Maeglin swung the sword back and aimed for Eöl's temple. There was a blur, then iron clashed against iron, sending sparks into the dull orange light.

"Thrust to my chest."

The blade moved forward of its own accord, singing into the night, then stopped suddenly. Eöl had caught the weight of it on the hilt of his sword, and the shock of the impact shot through Maeglin's shoulder, reverberating into his arm, down to his sword hand.

"Good." Eöl seemed content. "The sword is too long for you, even when for when you are fully grown." He made a notch along the sword. "I shall cut it here. The cross-piece and the pommel are still to be made. I shall cast them in bronze."

Again a faint thrill coursed through Maeglin's veins as he touched again the unfinished sword that was to be his. It flashed in the light of the furnace, and he fancied he could hear whisperings emanating from it, speaking of great things to come, of better weapons, made from dozens of fallen stars, cast in gold, or silver.

Eöl turned back to his fires, and Maeglin took this as a sign that he had been dismissed. He left the forge resolutely, head spinning from the heat and from this unexpected present. There was a price to pay though, and he did not like it.

"I am Lomion." He said it fiercely, as if he also needed persuading.

In the forge, the embers died down slowly, the shadows not nearly as agitated as before. Only one danced alone, and Eöl watched it as he dressed. When he looked again, it had disappeared. 


End file.
